Without Her
by Ink Cat
Summary: Sometimes he still thought that he could still smell her perfume, could still hear her laugh echoing against the dreary walls. [Munch & Cabot, angst]


Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Law and Order: SVU characters. (-sob-)

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_You made it look so easy  
Making love into memories_

- Dixie Chicks, Without You

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It was late. Or, rather, it was early. New York, the city that never slept, was quiet for the moment. He sat perched on his desk, staring out at the city lights. Everyone else had gone home. He had stayed, giving the excuse of needing to prepare for a trial. In actuality, he just wanted to be here, where the memories of her were still strongest, where her presence still lingered like the faint perfume she had always worn. Indian gardenias, he mused. They suited her so well, the pale flower embodying beauty, elegance and feminine grace.

Sometimes he still thought that he could still smell her perfume, could still hear her laugh echoing against the dreary walls. They had first met in this room. They had been colleagues. Then friends. Then lovers. And somewhere in the months that followed, they had become all three. That part was the best, he had decided.

He loved how she had been so sharp, so intelligent. Hers was a wit and cunning to rival his own, and he adored that. They had loved to match wits, debate, argue. Although she was a lawyer, there had been many times in which _he _had won. She was so passionate, for the law, for her job, and, although those were wonderful things, he was always secretly pleased that she had held the most affectionate and passionate sides of herself for him.

He glanced at a picture on his desk. It was a small watercolor of a jacaranda in full bloom atop a hill, almost eclipsed by an endlessly blue sky. In the corner, hidden amongst the emerald grasses, unnoticeable to any but those who knew exactly what to look for, was a small watermark. A capital 'A', the horizontal line circling halfway around to form a capital 'C'.

Painting had been a hobby of hers, one that he hadn't even known about till she had given him the little canvas. They had driven out to the country, and lain a blanket and a picnic atop the jacaranda's hill.

The purple flowers had fallen around them, spinning on the summer breeze. He remembered the look of wonder on her upturned face as her lively blue eyes, so long frozen, glazed in rapture at the twirling blossoms. She was so cold and cynical in some ways, though so innocent in others.

She had caught his eyes on her, captured his brown gaze with her own. He was mesmerized, he was lost. They must have only held each others' eyes for a moment, but for him it felt like forever. She had laughed, pulled him to his feet. They had walked down the hill, the incline causing their pace to quicken to a run, and even when they had reached the hill's end they continued.

They wove through a field, fragrant with sun baked earth, sweet smelling grass, and wildflowers. Her hair fell around her face as she threw her head back in an laugh that was like the tinkling of silver bells, so different from the usual smooth alto of her voice. He didn't think that he had ever heard her laugh before, ever _really_ laugh.

They flitted through the grasses like butterflies, coming together before spinning apart. The balmy air pressed against them, heavy with the hum and buzz of insects. Their heartbeats kept time with their pounding feet, perfectly in sync. She twirled, spun, danced with her arms over her head.

They finally ran out of breath and fell, laughing, to the ground, panting and grinning like maniacs. They had lay there, eagle spread, until the sky had faded to a dusky violet and the fireflies had waltzed and dipped above their heads. She had had wildflowers tangled in her hair, her cheeks were flushed and she was dusty.

She had never looked more beautiful.

He didn't know how long they had stayed there, the still-warm grasses protecting them from the chilly night air, but the stars had finally begun to fade when they had wandered, arm in arm, back to the hill to gather their things before returning, regretfully, to the city.

He turned the frame over in his hands, lifting a hidden flap of thin paper on the back of the canvas.

_John, _

_Now you can remember the jacaranda whenever you like! We'll have to go back again this summer. Or maybe somewhere else. Who knows? We've got a whole lifetime to make memories, though. And I, for one, look forward to each and every one. _

_With love,  
Alex._

A tear slipped down his face. He replaced the paper and set the picture back where it belonged. He removed his glasses, wiping away the moisture with a tired resignation. Replacing the rectangular frames, he gazed out the window at the city.

Its lights flamed. But for him, it was dark. Everything was now, without her.


End file.
